


Lost and Found

by probee



Category: NCIS
Genre: Episode: Family First, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8317378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probee/pseuds/probee
Summary: He’s seen too much loss over the years, and he hopes that at long last one of their own is able to find peace before it’s too late. It’s about time one of them does.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first time I’ve ever written fanfic. Ever. And I have no idea what I’m doing. And I’m also super nervous about it because did I mention I’ve never done any creative writing ever? But this idea has been stuck in my head for months now, and I figured it was time to get it out before it drives me crazy.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. They ain't mine. And I would never presume to think so. AND SCENE.

It is a day like any other. Meaning, way past the hour any sane person would still be at work, but somehow this is is his normal. There’s a quiet comfort in the familiar surroundings— the hum of the vents, the click-clack of keyboards, the idle chatter of the other agents making plans for the evening, or more likely canceling them— which to most others would be stifling. 

The team has just solved their latest case. A petty officer was taking advantage of his uniform to moonlight  _Magic Mike_ -style, until the meathead husband of one client found him entertaining his wife, and acquainted the young man’s skull with the kitchen counter. Three days, two mind-numbing interrogations and one ill-conceived high-speed chase ending in the front window of a 7-Eleven later, they’ve finally nailed the guy for murder and his spouse as an accessory, but victories like this feel hollow.  It’s their job to serve those who protect their country, but some days, it’s hard to keep up with the lengths people will go to in the name of sheer stupidity.

Compared to getting a confession out of the human embodiment of a rabid bear such as their suspect, finishing up the case report is downright civilized. Across the bullpen, his newly-anointed senior agent is doing the same, fingers typing at the speed of light in contrast to his labored clatter, and he’s sure that the younger man’s presence way past quitting time is merely out of duty at this point. After over a decade, the former probie has nothing more to prove to him, but with the revolving door of staff here of late, he suspects that he, too, feels a certain tranquility in the constancy of their long nights.

“Go home, McGee,” he finally utters, knowing he must have better places to be, in spite of the protests in his eyes. “That girlfriend of yours is going to start forgetting why she keeps you around if you don’t.” It isn’t a suggestion, and McGee knows better than to argue. He merely smiles back as he gathers his coat and bag and turns off his lamp for the night. “Right, Boss. See you Monday.”

The older man nods, but doesn’t look up from his screen until he catches the agent entering the elevator out of the corner of his eye. The kid— he’s definitely not a kid anymore, but he’ll always be  _the kid_  to him —has a lifetime of experience acting as the amiable peacekeeper of this family, but the patriarch knows there’s been a weight pressing on him in recent months, the pressure of living up to, well,  _everything_  (and everyone) in his new role clearly adding more than one new line around his eyes. 

He hopes that McGee doesn’t let the job get to him the way it has so many before him, that he makes good on his promise to Delilah, that he maintains his affable demeanor when the world seems to close in on them every once in a while. He’s seen too much loss over the years, and he hopes that at long last one of their own is able to find peace before it’s too late. It’s about time one of them does.

His solitude is disrupted almost violently by the excitedly raspy chatter coming at him like a freight train, and suddenly a whirl of jet-black activity envelops his desk.  

“Gibbs! You can’t seriously still be here! I mean, you can, because you’re obviously still sitting in your chair right in front of me, unless you somehow teleported yourself out of NCIS and into some other dimension, but that’s totally theoretical and we haven’t even begun to crack that tasty nugget yet—“ 

“Abby,” he interrupts, “you finish your lab report?” 

“Oh, right, of course. Here, it is, signed, sealed and delivered,  _sir_!” she salutes mock-seriously, an impish grin reaching her ears, and he can’t help the twinkle in his own eyes. 

“At ease, Abs. Give Sister Rosita my regards. Go easy on her tonight, it ain’t easy to get through ten frames on a bum knee.” 

“Are you kidding? She could still kick my butt. I show her no mercy!” she objects, but her crooked smile belies her accusations about her partner in crime.

The woman leans over to place a kiss on his cheek as is their custom, rising tenderness in her tone. “Don’t stay too late, ‘k? I mean it. Even the almighty Leroy Jethro Gibbs needs to breathe some non-recirculated air once in a blue moon.” 

“Don’t you worry about me,” he answers back, meeting her concern with fatherly affection. “I’m just finishing up. Have some 60-grit at home with my name on it tonight.” She pats his shoulder as she turns to leave, off to reclaim some of her own life outside of the confines of these hallowed (or hollowed) halls, until she almost literally screeches to a halt in her tracks.

“I almost forgot! Dave from the mailroom left this for you at the lab. I think he’s scared to come up here ever since that time you ripped him a new one in front of SecNav when he was here to see Director Vance.”

“Abs, he ran over my foot with the cart—“

“It was an accident! He’d just gotten these new contacts and he had this weird double-vision going on, like seriously his pupils would just get HUGE—“

“ _Twice_ , Abby! He ran over my foot  _twice_! And then he spilled his water all over the paperwork for the Johnson case and I had to rewrite it all. And you know I hate filling out those damn forms.” 

“Well, whatever, I’ll have you know his eyesight is much better now because he got these glasses that totally fixed that whole double-the-fun episode, although he still has a tendency to bump into things, now that you mention it…”

“Get to the point, Abs,” the elder interjects, understanding that if he doesn’t nip her segue in the bud now, he’s about to learn more than he ever wanted to know about the clumsy gofer’s great-aunt’s second cousin’s best friend’s grandpa’s dental hygienist. 

“Right! Apparently a whole bunch of stuff ended up between the filing cabinets in the mail room after Dave knocked over a bin a couple of weeks ago and they just found it all today when they moved them around after Lucy was convinced there was a mouse back there, which is totally crazy because this place is basically, like, hermetically sealed and I’m pretty sure she was just doing it because she’s got a crush on Andrew, who also works in there and has a really cute tush.”

Gibbs’ eyes narrow.

“ _So_ , no critter, but what they did find was this pile of letters that missed their initial due date.” The scrupulous agent is pretty sure his beloved forensic expert delivered that entire tale in a single breath. 

“ _Voilà_ , The Gibbs Files. Enjoy your weekend. Promise you’ll leave before midnight?” He gives her a smile reserved only for her, and they both know he won’t honor that request, but they keep up the pretense anyway. With that, she hands him a bundle of letters wrapped in an elastic band, and heads off to her rematch with the Holy Bowlers.

His first instinct is to throw the stack directly into the trash can (sorry,  _recycling bin_ , or else Abby will have his head), because nothing ever passes through inter-office mail except for increasingly fewer hard copies of expense reports to sign off on (which they would have had to submit by now anyway), reminders for seminars he always ignores (they long ago realized emailing such things was useless, but somehow haven’t figured out mailing them isn’t any better), or the odd invitation to some official dinner party he will never attend, which he needs like a(nother) hole in his head. 

Yet something catches his eye in the heap and makes him pause. As he unravels the bunch, one piece is distinctly not like the others. Instead of a standard government-issue envelope, a black-and-white photo of a distinctly Parisian street scene stares back at him. The edges of the postcard are dog-eared, no doubt a victim of its time in the underworld of the Navy Yard mail room, but it brightens his face anyway. The image looks like the poster of an old-time movie, and despite the lack of return address — or any obvious identifiers save for the  _Par avion_  postmark  — he immediately knows who the sender is.  The back of the card is markedly blank, except for a few words in a scrawl he’d recognize anywhere. 

_We found our answer._

To anyone else, the cryptic note would either raise eyebrows, or be discarded as junk. But to this man, the words bring relief in a way he didn’t know he’d needed for months now. Without realizing it, he chuckles to himself, and in that moment he decides to rise from his seat and turn off his computer. Maybe it’s time to listen to the kids after all and head home.  

The worry never truly leaves — once a parent, always a parent —yet at the end of this thoroughly ordinary, unremarkable day, for the first time in ages he feels like they’re all going to be okay, no matter where their feet land.  And when he’s in the solitude of his basement, lulled by the uniform sway of the sandpaper, he’ll toast to all the kids being all right tonight. He knows where they are, and for now, that’s enough.


End file.
